


now we are free

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [40]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Dreams, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, coming home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27433774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Dean dreams.At first, about nothing. At some point between Castiel… between Castiel and waking up on the cold, concrete floor, Dean dreams about nothing but the sweet release of not existing. For a brief period, all he knows is that the world is dark, and nothing can hurt him. Not God, not Death, not the Empty. All at once, nothing can touch him, and Dean clings to it like a man desperate for air.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Codas [40]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/247642
Comments: 19
Kudos: 239





	now we are free

Dean dreams.

At first, about nothing. At some point between Castiel… between Castiel and waking up on the cold, concrete floor, Dean dreams about nothing but the sweet release of not existing. For a brief period, all he knows is that the world is dark, and nothing can hurt him. Not God, not Death, not the Empty. All at once, nothing can touch him, and Dean clings to it like a man desperate for air.

Sam shows up, eventually. Wakes him and walks him to bed without asking questions. Jack knows something is up, but won’t spill. Tears track Sam’s cheeks, and Dean knows he understands. Because Sam loved Eileen, and Dean loved—

 _Loves_. Has and always will.

Sleep comes easier now than it ever has. With no noise to distract him and despair setting up shop in his heart, Dean sleeps with all intentions of dying from sorrow. Whiskey has never helped this well, and neither has someone smashing him with a shovel or the same bottle he drank from. His dreams remain dull for minutes—hours, maybe—until static breaks in. No noise, just the soft, grainy snow of an old television set, flickering in and out of frequency. Dean doesn’t pay it any attention—doesn’t plan to, either.

But it doesn’t stop. If anything, it progresses, growing more vibrant until all at once, it dims. Dean steps through the façade and walks into the grass, the blades wet and cold between his toes. Around him, the wind blows, and the sky is painted sepia, clouds wafting by. Warm air touches his skin, only warm because something tells him it is. Like a hand on the small of his back, or caressing his nape. A brand surges to life on his shoulder, silvered with age, like it never left.

 _Walk with me_ , the wind whispers. Dean can’t help but follow.

Wheat stalks grow under his feet, sprouting waist-high and brushing against his jeans. Dean runs his hands through them, fully expecting Lisa Gerrard to serenade him as he walks through the afterlife. No inevitable white light entertains him, nor does Death’s cold hand take his. He walks—for how long, he doesn’t know, but he walks until his feet ache and he comes to a clearing.

A lake waits for him, hidden among the fields. Dean stops along the shore and sits, digging his feet into the silt. Water laps his ankles, just as warm as the air. A boat sits a few feet away, moored to a stake.

 _Sail with me_ , the wind beckons.

He moves on instinct and steps into the boat—six feet long, a dinghy barely big enough for one. Unhooking the line, Dean floats, the boat moves on its own accord. Slow, steady, taking him out to the deepest section. He could still swim the shore if he needed, but there’s no danger here, no hands to reach over and drag him down. He can’t die in a dream, at least by someone else’s hand. His heart could stop, or the bunker could collapse, and all he would know is that for once, he felt at peace.

 _Whenever you need me, come here_ , the wind tells him. The soft press of what feels like feathers settles over his shoulders, surrounding him, blacking out his vision. _Pray to me, and I’ll answer_.

Dean wakes before he can speak, skin cold from the air conditioner and fear.

A few days and several unsettlingly realistic dreams later, God waits for them in a church a few miles from town. Broken and tilted, the steeple points toward the sky; the front doors fell off long ago, and someone shattered the stained glass. Dean knows this place well—knows this is where Lucifer died, and where sometimes in the middle of the night, he sneaks out to sit in the pews and beg for forgiveness from any god that might be listening.

Jack has a plan. Came up with it with Sam’s help, and together with Michael at their side, they bind God, driving his own sword through his heart until the fire in his eyes dies and he—finally—shuts his mouth. Jack takes on a mark, one neither he nor Sam can talk him out of, and assumes the position he was never born to be—the new god. Keeper of the heavens, mediator between good and evil.

“I have to make things right,” Jack explains, looking down at his hands after the deed is done. Sam looks at Jack with hope in his eyes, something Dean will never feel again. “I have to reset the world. Give me an hour,” and he disappears, leaving the two of them alone.

The only two humans on the planet. Dean has never craved death more than he does in that one moment.

Eileen comes back, then Charlie, then Bobby. The rest follow, and humanity returns, like nothing happened. Life goes on, and Dean seeks out the dream more and more, the only comfort he can find. Sam worries about him—Jack looks at him with sadness. He can’t touch the Empty, and only Death knew how to get in and out. Death’s library is full, but no reapers have come to take her spot. Dean searched aisles A through Z and beyond, and found no entrance to where Castiel sleeps eternally. Where he’ll always be out of reach, even after Dean enters those pearly gates one last time.

The flutter of wings follows him every night, like birds in flight, hovering over his head. Sometimes, he sits out in the dinghy and watches the sunrise. Others, he sits in the kitchen of the cabin by the shore, looking out over the land that he’ll never own. The sound keeps him company, and lingers around corners and trees. A ghost unable to manifest, but longing to all the same.

Dean rests within the dream, and feels arms around his waist, cold toes pressed to his Achilles. Nothing is there when he stirs, and in reality, the bed remains cold. He swears, though, that someone is here with him, haunting him. And for the first time in weeks, he cries, open-mouthed and quiet, into his pillow, praying that he manages to smother himself in the process.

 _Tell me_ , the wind tells him, a month to the day after Castiel vanished. Dean stands in the lake, water up to his knees with tears in his eyes. _Tell me_.

“I love you,” Dean says, warbling. He feels like a child, like he’s four years old again, hugging his mother in the kitchen and telling her that John will be back, that he loves all of them. Shouldering a burden he shouldn't at any age. “I’ve always loved you.”

 _Call to me_ , the wind says. Begs, with a voice so familiar, that Dean remembers it purely on instinct.

Reaching out to the sun, Dean opens his hand and grabs it, taking the star into his palm. It burns brilliantly blue and works its way under his skin, through his veins, where it eventually settles in his heart. Fire sears through his soul, fierce and unhindered—and white flashes before Dean’s eyes, the world around him disappearing in an instant.

He wakes in bed, the nightstand light dim, finding someone sitting at his desk. Blue eyes settle on his, and all at once, the world is right on its axis.

“You’re back,” Dean whispers, breath caught.

And Castiel nods, his smile soft, content. “I’m home."

His kiss tastes of sunlight, and his body burns just as hot. Dean clings to him, buries his soul in Castiel’s chest, and plans to never let go, for as long as he lives.

“Welcome home,” Dean says, sealing it with a kiss. Castiel smiles against him, and Dean melts. _Welcome home, my love_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Somehow between posting my DCBB and now, I ended up with my dad's cold, so I wrote this on extremely little sleep and hopped up on cold meds. I hope it makes sense because it made me cry! I'm not ready for this show to end ;A;
> 
> Also yes hello I've watched Gladiator too many times.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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